


enterprising

by TheOnlyHuman



Series: arkhos [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: BAMF Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), BAMF Eret (Video Blogging RPF), Eret Needs A Hug (Video Blogging RPF), Eret-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Mafia AU, Minor Violence, Mob Boss Eret, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Character Death, Pet Names, Protective Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), They/Them pronouns for Eret, its a mob au wot u expecting? flowers?, please be safe xx
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27787972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOnlyHuman/pseuds/TheOnlyHuman
Summary: Eret's start into the business was rough; going from happy family life to screaming their voice out to bruising their knees.But, as it's said,good things never come easy.or,'Reality is that which, when we stop believing in it, does not go away.' (Philip K. Dick.)
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Eret (Video Blogging RPF), Eret & Scot Griswold (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: arkhos [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2029768
Comments: 13
Kudos: 436





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> tw//
> 
> implied/referenced: underage forced sex (rape), sexual abuse, human trafficking, slavery, forced drug use, 
> 
> please be safe whilst reading. this will be the only heavy fic of this series (of this degree and pertaining this area).

Eret hadn't always been a mafia boss (or a Don, as some people liked to call it). They hadn't been born and told what they were nor had their parents actually divulged what their jobs were. At least, not until they were dead.

Their parents had been murdered when they were seventeen. Five years ago, a lucky mercenary had gotten past their estate's bodyguards and security and had slit their parents' throats right in front of them.

They'd been rocked, half traumatised by the first truly gruesome thing they'd witnessed in their sheltered life. The revelation had come in their shared will, only half of which they'd been privy to.

_"To Alastair, our son: we leave our legacy, our fortune, all physical and monetary assets and all properties."_ With a playful after-note of, _"_ _Keep the boys in line."_

But they'd been young. Young and so unsure. Scot Griswold had been there for them, an advisor and possibly the best they could've ever had. He'd helped them get steady on their feet, but not quick enough.

He'd been shot dead in front of them. The (what they'd later learn to have been a 40 .cal) bullet had ripped a whole through his head and they'd screamed so loud their voice was lost for days afterwards.

It had been another local gang behind that murder. The group had moved in, taking over everything that was Eret's. Except, they hadn't been Eret back then; they'd been Alastair and they'd been _he_ and far too meek.

In short, they were _weak._

They hadn't even had a chance to meet their syndicate before it was ripped away from them.

The invading boss had taken a liking to them, then, and that had been the only thing to keep them alive. He'd taken them as a pet, the greasy skinned, bad breathed asshole.

He'd kept them under close watch for months, time dragging on as he ordered them about, making them sit by his feet and _humiliating_ them, forcing them to do his every want.

But they'd kept quiet, little Alastair had been something close to mute. They'd gained his trust, lapping up to the man with no sense of fashion or hygiene and had taken the hits and the coy grabs and touches. They'd taken the sly insults, the scorching, tingling bruises and each and every grope. They'd rolled with it all.

And they'd finally gotten their own back, one morning in rural Spain.

It was sunny, roasting hot in the hotel room. The thin curtains were no more than scraps of fabric, the gentle breeze rustling them. The view beyond was beautiful, or had been when Eret was grounded enough to actually be able to see it - colourful, layered rooftops spinning round to create a whirlwind of a small, media-isolated town. The bright overhangs of market stalls lit up the ground during the day, floating lanterns and fairy lights dazzling the scene at night.

A honeymoon suite had been rented out, one with a large queen-sized bed and a bucket full of wine bottles. There was a bathroom with a large shower to the right of the door, the bedroom taking up the rest of the large space. Silently, a tv flashed images from its vantage over the bed, telling a story or a local newsline Eret couldn't make out.

"We've got to head over to Vincent's today, then down to check on the workers," the three hundred and sixty pound man had said, clutching a wine glass in his huge hands, thick fingers dwarfing the small glass. He stood like a human blob in the wide doorway leading onto the balcony, leering over the town he was inching closer to taking over through his latest human trafficking ring.

Eret had always despised human trafficking. The disgust it filled them with, a tightening in their chest, had been the feeling that had drowned them that morning. It had swamped them, settling over their senses as a fog thicker than the scent of sex the hotel room held onto.

The sun had glinted off his wine glass, shining into their eyes. Strewn over the large bed, near paralyzed, their heart had hammered rapidly in their chest as their body worked through the round of drugs the man had pushed into them in preparation for some one-sided fun earlier that morning. Small mercies consisted of the fact they were now too numb to feel where he'd touched them and where the needle had pierced their skin. "You listening, toy?"

"Yes, sir," they'd slurred, shivery cold despite the heat. The thin blanket over their lap was barely enough to cover them, and certainly did nothing for hiding the bruises sewn into their skin. The lust in the man's eyes was clear when he turned bodily to look down at them.

"Good," he said, and even then his name had been foggy in Eret's memory. They'd heard it once more, after they'd gotten away, but that mouth had quickly been shut. "I'll get a shower and then we can get breakfast. Be good, little toy."

Nearly completely out of it, vision patchy and blurred, they jerked when the man gripped their bruised ankle. As their limbs spasmed painfully, he cackled; a long, low thing that would forever haunt them. "Good boy," he leered, slapping their bruise once more before leaving them there, on the bed like a trophy.

They hated it. So fucking much. Sometimes they imagined rolling over in the middle of the night and strangling the man with something, maybe a shoelace, maybe even the blankets themselves (they would've done it with their own underwear, if they were given any). But they hadn't gone through with it, because there was always a hand around their waist and an eye on their chest.

Their parents were dead and so was Scot. They were alone - an eighteen year old stuck under a sneering, fat old man and forced to sit on their knees and take whatever he dished out.

In the bathroom, the water turned on. The spray was akin to a low roar, a sound that echoed and reverberated through their head. Eret lay on the bed, fingers gripping uselessly at their own hip as the boss grunted and shuffled his way out of his clothes. He stood on their peripheral, flexing jugs of fat before the mirror for a long moment.

"Good lookin' as ever," he guffawed, looking to them through the mirror. Eret, knowing better what would happen if they disagreed, offered a loose grin. "Buy you some more clothes today, pretty thing. I seen some shorts down by the market last night that might suit."

"Thank you," they forced themselves to say, tongue pulling on the vowels as they struggled to speak.

They blinked and opened their eyes to steam roiling out of the bathroom, the boss standing by the bed, coiffing his short balding hair. He looked down at them, evidently in a good mood from how he chuckled.

"Guess I gave you too much of that stuff, eh? Pete wasn't joking when he said it was strong."

Hiccuping, they drawled. "Strong like you."

"Damn right," he agreed fiercely, finishing the buttons on his shirt. He was wearing some abomination of orange and purple that was in completely the wrong shade. His khakis were some shade of beige and paired with his sturdy flipflops, he looked no more different than a tourist. Of course, the man's thorough lack of Spanish etiquette only aided this image.

Their eyes fluttered shut again as he turned back to the mirror to check his hair. What could've been anything from five seconds to ten minutes later, they felt his large hands on their purpled ankle, tugging them down towards him, and felt their body go limp and pliant despite the throbbing whisper of discomfort.

"Good boy," murmured the man, a warm washcloth in his hand which he palmed over them. He rubbed along their face and neck first, wiping away the dried saliva he'd left there and not being gentle about it.

In response to a wince of pain when a bruise was pushed down on too hard, he smirked and rolled their left nipple under his pudgy fingers. "You're doing brilliant, toy. Should we put you in your red summer dress today or those blue cargo shorts?"

Knowing whatever they whispered would be ignored, Eret remained silent, watching the cloth dip down past their thighs with half-lidded eyes. He was in a exceptionally good mood today, seeing as he usually made them shower themself whether they had steady feet or not. It could've been due to the drugs he'd pumped into them, having rambled on about how he needed to test his newest order of something.

"Yeah, I think the low-cut tank top with the shorts," he nodded along to an unspoken tune, leaning down to press a kiss against their lips. They didn't return it despite how the numbness was beginning to fade and they could now feel their face and arms. "Hmph. Those drugs are better than Pete said. We'll make big bucks off them for sure."

The door shook with a knock, the weak wood bouncing as the door was opened. A young man walked in, lighting up the room with his angelic green eyes and brown hair and made eye contact with Eret. "Sir, we have a problem."

"Of what sort?" Snapped the man, buttoning a pair of denim shorts around their waist they hadn't even realised had been pushed up their legs. He turned his head to look, his four chins bouncing as he squinted at the man. "I don't recognise you, who'd you work under?"

"Alastair's parents," announced the man and pulled a hand gun from the waistband of his shorts. One shot to the stomach had the overweight fucker stumbling, a second had him loosing balance.

"They send their regards, asshole. Don't expect to meet them in hell."

With that, the man tumbled out of Eret's life and the balcony. Screams echoed up from the narrow road below.

"My name is Dream, sir," said the man who couldn't have been any older than them. "I'm hired as your personal bodyguard through your father's wishes. I apologise for how long it took me to get here."

On that day, they cried for the first time in a long time. Reasonably, they knew that this Dream guy had probably only saved them due to some prior commitment or something for himself, but the joy that someone was on their side - even if just for those few moments - was so relieving it was almost crushing.

That day was the beginning of their mafia.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw//
> 
> character death, guns, mention of blood/ death, eret uses he/him here due to them being younger and not having settled on theythem yet. also they use alastair.. because past name & we're in the past.

**ONE YEAR BEFORE**

It had been a dark, dreary day along the coast of Brighton. It was colder than usual, the air swelling in preparation for a storm that would kick up sand and shores alike.

Alastair had wrapped up warm in a long coat and thick winter trousers. He was thin and easily chilled, _"an inch away from being sickly"_ his mother had always said.

"We've got three crews, one caporegime and a handful of associates," Scot Griswold said, touring him on his new empire. Only last week had Alastair learnt of his parents' business; the mob.

Left to him in their will, he'd been given the entire gang his parents had started up, alongside their immense fortune and all properties and assets. The gang was small, nothing _too_ special - at least, according to Scot.

And Scot seemed to know his stuff. His parents had evidently thought so too, seeing as he'd been left as Alastair's advisor and second in command. He was excited about running a gang, if not worried he'd mess up.

The warehouses were so big and very bright, sun sparkling off the aluminium panels. It was all so new and cool to Alastair that he couldn't help but bounce around as Scot explained the different sections of the gang and introduced him to new faces, some more grisly than the rest.

The room they were currently in was large - each and every corner stacked high with huge shelving units. Boxed things alongside bits and bobs were scattered around the place, looking something close to one of those shipping warehouses he'd seen on the tv once in a documentary. The place was a breath of misty fresh air accompanied by a metallic smell that was reminiscent of his father's old work-boots when he'd worked in the car factory.

_How,_ he wondered silently, _did he get to this?_

His mother had been an account. Did that have anything to do with it?

Surely people didn't just _decide_ to form a gang?

"That's it on enforcers," Scot was saying, brown fur coat pulled tight to his body. His skin was momentarily dappled grey from the overhead sun-window they walked under. For a man not too far into his thirties, his hair was thinning and whitening from stress.

Alastair hoped he wasn't the cause of that stress. He'd have to treat the other; maybe he'd like an ice cream from the Morelli's down the street.

"We've got an ex special ops coming over from America, some prodigy your father got on contract before..." Scot continued, waving at a short stick-like man with a thick green fisherman's sweater. "That's Eric, he's in charge of transport. Anyways, the spec guy is coming over in a few months. Last I heard he'd got caught up with something over in Oregon."

"Awesome," Alastair breezed, not really listening. His eye caught on a large pile of stacked crates (the only ones in the whole warehouse) in the midst of being secured with rope in the far corner. "What are those crates?"

"Being shipped to Iceland," his advisor explained. "We specialise in obscure things. They find it hard to get stuff over there. You'd be surprised at the profit it brings in."

"What sort of stuff?" He questioned.

"All sorts. Meats, shirts, toys, you say it we've probably sent it."

"Drugs?" Alastair prodded, watching two men rifle through the crates, one calling things out to the other who nodded and scribbled things down on a checkboard. He could almost hear their chatter over the soft hum of other conversations.

There weren't many people in the warehouse, maybe fifty total. A small operation, but seemingly a successful one.

Scot was quiet.

He turned to look at the other man, blinking down at him. Scot was staring at his phone, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He tapped away at his dark screen, eyes flickering over a sudden splotch of green.

Texting someone, Alastair realised, pouting.

"Scot?"

His advisor startled, head jerking up to stare at him. "Yes, Alastair?"

Stood in the middle of the warehouse the chill bit at them. "Nevermind. Can we go for ice cream?"

"Bit cold, is it not?" Scot huffed, making a point with the cloud of white mist his breath made.

"Never too cold for ice cream," he insisted, gearing up his puppy-dog eyes that had gotten him a new bike without fuss after he'd broken the last one when he was ten. Or had it been without fuss seeing as his parents could obviously afford it? Distantly, the sound of a phone ringing echoed around the warehouse. "C'mon, Scottie. Ice cream!"

"Alright, fine," agreed his advisor, mouth opening to say something else.

His sentence was cut off by a man dropping a large box in the middle of the warehouse, a good thirty metres away from the two of them. Alastair noticed the green sweater from earlier, just as the man turned to grin at him and Scot.

"Good riddance, Griswold." He boomed before kicking the box.

A loud, shrill beep started up. Alastair stood still, confused and unsure as the men furthest away began to sprint towards the doors out onto the shipping port line. Beside him, Scot cursed.

"Run!" Scot shouted, grabbing his arm with such force that Alastair winced. The advisor tugged him along, back towards the doors they'd entered from as Alastair stumbled.

"What's-" _What's_ _happening? What's he doing? What's all this fuss for?_

"Down!" Scot shoved him down behind a large box with a tractor drawn on it. Alastair went, knees bouncing off the freezing cold concrete floor as Scot cowered over him, hugging him tight to his chest and pressing a hand over the ear that was unguarded. "Close your eyes, kid."

A large bang shook everything. In the darkness, Alastair sucked in a breath and choked on a toxic mix of ash and dust and smoke. He opened his eyes to find Scot's furry hem in his face, the man's nose buried in his hair as his callused, rough hand uncovered his ear.

Scot patted his shoulder, easing him upright despite the ringing in his ears. Alastair coughed in the silence of his own head and blinked up at a ferocious looking Scot.

A thumbs up was shoved in his face, a tap to his jaw drawing attention to the appendage. Alastair looked and nodded slowly, letting his advisor pull him to his feet.

Metal shelves were toppled like dominos, everything within a certain distance of the once bomb gone, blown to dust. If Scot hadn't of dragged them both back they too would've been nothing more than ash. The green sweater man was gone, now nothing more than a scrap of fabric on the floor.

In the burning wreck of the warehouse, shivering men scrambled away from their hiding places and ran for the doors once more. They didn't get far as a group of thirty or so men burst into the room through those very doors, hefting big guns and chunky bulletproof vests.

Guns popped and crackled, mowing down the runners until there was no movement from their reddened bodies. Scot shoved him back, sticking his hands up as a fat man in a suit plodded into the scene. The guy's hair was all greasy and slicked back, greying at the sides and roots. His white dress shirt looked ready to burst out of itself.

Scot was obviously speaking, as the men had stopped firing at a hand gesture and the fat man was nodding along amicably. Alastair wobbled where he stood, wary to touch anything lest he burn himself on the hot metal of the toppled shelves, the ringing in his ears fading to a dull drone that was still just a bit too loud.

He watched the fat guy instead, eyes locked on his face as the guy looked over to him and his entire gaze _darkened._ Alastair was frozen as the man grinned at him, bearing fake pearly whites.

There was a hand gesture, a gentle beckoning _come here_ from the man. Unsure, Alastair wavered, looking to Scot only to find the advisor frowning heavily, looking panicked. His face was darkened with soot, the fires all around them blotting out the light whilst making the shadows dance a golden show on his coat and in his eyes.

Alastair took a step forth when Scot made no move to tell him not too, finding his hearing slowly settling as he took a few weak steps towards the group. He felt like a newborn lamb, all limbs and no muscle.

_"An inch away from sickly,"_ his mother's voice called.

At another reassuring nod from the fat suited guy, Alastair stepped close enough to Scot to have joined the group circle. It seemed highly unfair for Scot to be standing alone whilst the suit guy had at least thirty other men wearing balaclavas and wielding big, heavy guns gathered around him.

Beside him, Scot opened his mouth just as the suited guy shoved his hand down his trousers and pulled out a handgun. The bullet tore through his head quicker than a knife slid through butter.

Scot Griswold dropped to the floor, a hole blown through his brain. Alastair stared, swallowed a whisper and screamed.

He screamed and screamed and screamed.

The fat guy just smiled at him. Even as he fell to his knees and knelt in the blood of his friend, even as he became lightheaded, even as his vision clouded with tears and his eyes burned from the smoke, the fat guy just smiled at him.

A pudgy, sweaty hand curled through his hair. Alastair jerked at the contact, rearing away from the leering, stout man before the base of his gun came down and knocked him unconscious.

Eret shot up in bed, a cough tightening their windpipe as their eyes watered. Every breath was a rattled, hoarse thing and every time they closed their eyes they saw a naive boy falling victim to a horrible act.

"Alright?" Dream's concerned voice came from the doorway of their bedroom.

They cleared their throat, twisted over half their bed to grab the glass of water on their nightstand and chugged it down.

"Yes," they said finally, wiping water off their chin as they shivered from phantom touches. Dream entered the room, steps slow and measured, and placed their phone beside the now empty glass. "Time check."

"6.52 AM," their bodyguard and emergency second in command answered. He wasn't wearing his mask in the solitude of the penthouse, the long jagged scar over his lips clearly visible, even in the dull light that filtered past the drawn blinds. "Your first appointment is at 10.05 AM. Multi-national corporation, Lazar's Beams. Originally Australian. Founder and CEO is Lannan Lazar, big shot in the shoes industry."

"I take it George is awake then," they chimed, for Dream _never_ had that level of information right off the bat without having talked to George first. Their recruitment of the man to be their computer specialist (fancy name for being their hacker, really) had been a marvellous one indeed. He never failed to encourage.

Dream blew out a breath and smirked. "Yeah."

"Good, we can start early." They nodded, swinging out of their bed. The carpet under their feet helped ground them, the fluffiness a secure reminder of where they were. Dream turned around to open the blinds (they were high enough up that no one else could see through the windows so it didn't really matter that they weren't changed yet) whilst they tapped off a text to Phil on his status.

"Sapnap's here too," said the other, light slowly flooding the room as they stalked over to their walk-in wardrobe and tapped open the pressure-point press-open doors.

"Back from Arkansas so soon? He cleaned up after himself, I hope."

"Of course. Krinios went with him and helped with the arson. Among Us Industries won't be interfering with any of your North American factories now that they've lost their own."

"Inconspicuous and sudden?"

"Electrical fault, I heard," Dream snickered. "Wooden walls are very flammable."

"I'm sure our pyromaniac enjoyed his trip," Eret laughed, stepping into a pair of ocean-blue tights. Their white skirt with printed fish on it came next, tied up old-fashioned with the corset-esque string at the back. "Corpse Husband won't know what hit him."

Dream added, "He _was_ being too loud."

"On Arkhos' scenic view too. Such a shame some people fall victim to their own greed."

That last statement hit close to a nerve, for both of them. They turned to the left to pull a shirt up against their chest for comparison against their skirt and saw Dream's wicked grin in their peripheral. Eret blew out a breath as Dream began his kettle wheeze before eventually giving in and laughing with him.

They settled on a light white coloured fabric, see-through over-vest that had puffed out sleeves and went nicely over their cordial black tank top.

A buzz caught their ear. Eret checking their phone to find Philza's responding text to be all greens.

"Technoblade will be here today, seeing as they've finally moved into their house." They hummed, slipping the phone into a hidden pocket in their wavy above-knee cut skirt. A switchblade from their wardrobe drawer found itself joining it, a pretty amber handled one with a little fish skeleton inside. "Try not to pick another fight with him."

"He started it, boss," Dream chirped, smiling innocently when they turned to stare at him. The ex special ops tilted his head and quickly changed the topic. "Phil buy that suburban house he seen?"

"You know he did. Don't know why, it's ugly as sin. There's also the fact Wilbur needs to crouch to get up the stairs."

"How long do you think he'll be able to stand it?"

"I'm going to give it a month before offering him another loft." They decided, stepping into their ensuite and tapping on the hot water to wash their face. "You?"

"Bets are on for at least two," Dream confirmed their suspicions. "Sapnap thinks Phil's too stubborn to move out when he'll really need to."

"Oh well," they said and halted conversation for a few minutes as they shoved their toothbrush into their mouth to brush their teeth.

"Don't Wil and Techno have a kid brother?" Dream murmured when they dropped their toothbrush into its holder.

"Eighteen in a few months. Tommy Innit."

"You going to..?" He let the question trail off, already knowing the answer.

Eret shrugged, taking the logical route of this argument. "Better he's introduced early than brought in as an inexperienced greenhorn at eighteen. He's already had longer than most others would."

"There's only so long you can be safe outside the group when your family's in the group," Dream agreed. This was fact; one known from experience.

Dream had lost their sister when they were still Clay. Eret lost their parents and a friend when they were Alastair. Both were intimately familiar with death, the loss it brought with it and the ultimate reason behind such happenings.

Their stomach grumbled. "What do you say to breakfast, darling?"

The brunette grimaced as if pained. "I'd say we'd better get something from a café." And then, explanation enough, "George is cooking."

"A quick shopping spree has never hurt anyone," they smiled.


End file.
